


A Thing I Cannot Name

by strixus



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Flashback within a Flashback, Gen, M/M, Missing Scene, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:03:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strixus/pseuds/strixus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Look, Lady Seeker, I did leave something out. But it was something that really, really shouldn’t be spoken of where such ladylike ears as yours can hear it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Telling Stories

**Author's Note:**

> Update: I've injured one of my hands, and it has significantly slowed typing. Sorry  
> Update 2: Hand is healing, but I've been horribly sick in the last few weeks. I WILL update eventually, I promise.
> 
> A new fandom for me. I'm painfully in love with the story of Fenris, and I kept seeing bits and pieces that needed to be filled in.
> 
> The Hawke here is my Hawke, but you can substitute your own. I've included bits of how I actually played through parts of the game, and will include more as the story progresses.

“There is still something you are leaving out, dwarf.” Her dark eyes burned, and Varric could not help but notice how they seemed, for a moment, to be every bit like the burning eye she and all Seekers wore. “I still do not understand why the Champion -” and oh did Varric hear the capital letter she always put on that word “- sided with the Templars rather than the Circle. His sister was a Circle mage! He doomed her!”

Varric sighed. He thought he had explained in more than enough detail for Seeker Cassandra to understand what it was that had changed Hawke. But if she was going to be like that, he would have to tell her another part of the story.

“Look, Lady Seeker, I did leave something out. But it was something that really, really shouldn’t be spoken of where such ladylike ears as yours can hear it.” He saw her glare, saw her eyes narrow and focus on him, daring him. He did always love a hostile audience.

“Fine, fine.” He raised his calloused hands in surrender, shifting in the chair. Why didn’t the Blighted thing have a cushion any more, he wondered. “I told you about Fenris and Hawke, yes? I thought that would get you to understand. But look, if you want the full story, I have to tell you some …. mushy parts.”

Her eyes remained narrowed, an unspoken demand to continue, and he caught himself rolling his own in response.

“Let me see if I can fill in some of the details, so you get the full picture.” She nodded, gauntleted hands folding across her chest, distracting him momentarily as he mentally composed an ode to how beautiful an angry woman could be. Her jaw clenched, he blinked, and found his train of thought again.

“So, back before we had the run-in with the Arishok, something like a month before, I think, we had that run in with the slavers and the Magister, and I told you what happened between Fenris and Hawke then. But what I didn’t tell you was what happened after that night they had their - um - encounter.”

“I was drinking in the Hanged Man that night, celebrating a good night of dicing - or was it a good night of cards - anyway, celebrating something up in my rooms there. Round about eight bells that night, just as I was getting comfortably into my cups, Norah knocks on my door and tells me that Hawke has come in, looking entirely out of sorts, and could I come see what’s wrong. And that’s where the story really starts.”

* * *

Varric felt more then heard the bubble of silence around the table where Hawke sat: a disturbance in the constant ebb and flow of noise in the Hanged Man was as obvious the bloody tide wash of a fresh corpse on a beach. And no wonder Norah had come to fetch him - Hawke looked lost and completely out of sorts. Before he was even down the back stairs he was gesturing at Norah to fetch something strong to drink from under the counter. When he sat down at the table and Hawke didn’t even look up, Varric knew things were serious.

Thus, he put on his brightest smile and tapped a finger on the table within Hawke’s field of vision. “You know, Hawke, that’s a good way for a man with as many enemies as yourself to get himself killed.” Hawke, eyes vacant and slightly glassy, looked up but he didn’t respond to the well meaning jibe. Not good, thought Varric.

“Yep, those are not the eyes of a man who should be drinking in the common room of the Hanged Man. Especially when his good friend has a private room up stairs with better drinks for such a dour face than they’d give you out here.”

Hawke blinked, and Varric saw him deflate further - if that was possible - and then shrug. “For the sake of a dwarf who wants the goose that laid his golden egg to live a bit longer, come up to my room, and you can drink in sullen silence there, alright?” Hawke nodded, a reluctant one, and Varric got up from the table, waving Hawke to follow.

“I swear, Hawke, you’re going to shave more years off my life than I’ve got left, one day,” he said with a forced laugh as he walked back up the stairs. “Come on, I’ve got plenty to drink, and I think Norah just put something in a bucket of ice for us on the table.”

Norah had, of course. Varric loved her for all she did, and made sure his tips said as much, and she always seemed to know exactly what was needed. There were two good, sturdy mugs, a few chilled bottles of the good dark stout that Hawke liked, three bottles of the brandy that Corff brewed in the cellars of the bar, and - bless the girl - a plate of meat pies. Varric locked the door, waving at Norah down the stairs before he pulled it shut, and settled into a chair opposite Hawke, pouring them both a mug of the stout.

Hawke drank the mug dry without saying a word, barely looking up from the table the entire time. He then drank a second one, and then a third, while Varric nursed through half that many. All the while he watched his friend, growing more concerned with each drink that passed in silence.

When Hawke reached to pour some of the brandy into his mug, Varric snatched the gloved wrist with a glare. “New rule. You can keep drinking, all night for all I care, but you don’t get a new drink unless you’re still talking. And you can start by telling me why you seemed determined to drink yourself under the table before it gets to be the fun part of the night.”

Hawke glared for a moment at Varric’s hand then at the bottle of brandy and his empty mug, then rolled his head back, leaning it against the high back of the dwarven style chair. Varric let his friend’s hand go, watching the telltale signs of pain and grief walk across his face and body.

“What did I do wrong, Varric?”

Varric blinked, his turn to be surprised. “Want to back up there for those of us who aren’t inside your head, so I might have a chance of knowing which what I am telling you that you did wrong?”

Varric saw Hawke glance at the door, then return his eyes to looking up at the ceiling. “Fenris,” Hawke said, leaving the name of the escaped Tevinter slave hanging in the air between them.

“Is this about that blighted magister bitch that came to take him back?” Varric had a sudden moment of worry, “He hasn’t pulled a runner from town, has he? There are surely still slavers out there -”

Hawke waved a hand, cutting Varric off. “No, not in as much. He,” Hawke’s words caught in his throat. He swallowed, and tried again. “He and I-”

“Oh. Yeah. Kind of hard not to miss you making eyes at him for the last three years, Hawke. But you hadn’t really made a move, had you? Did he give you the brushoff?”

“No - Yes? I don’t know, Varric.” Even if Hawke hadn’t been talking by this point, the look of pain in his friend’s eyes would have made him pour the brandy into his mug.

“Why don’t you take it slow, and tell me what happened, and ole Healer Varric will see what he can figure out.” The look Hakwe shot him over the top of the mug was half way between wanting to laugh and wanting to punch him in the face.

Well, that’s closer to normal, thought Varric.

Hawke set the mug down again. “You remember after we killed her? How he was?” Varric nodded, and let Hawke continue. “I went to see him after that. The next night. I thought maybe I could finally make him realize how I felt. I -” there was a distinct wince “- thought I had, Varric. But you know how he is. I had to let him brood on it, let him think - let him come to me on his own terms.”

Varric watched as his friend took another too long swig from the mug, holding the brandy a moment before swallowing. He had honestly guessed something like this was going to happen. Hawke and Fenris had been dancing around each other like skittish nugs since they had met years ago, and it hadn’t been too hard to see that they both belonged together. Even Merrill had noticed. But Hawke never could do things the easy way, it seemed.

“So, what happened?” Varric prompted.

“I spent the next day doing anything I could to keep my mind off him, Varric. I barely slept, and I swear I made up errands to run; I even took the dog for a walk all the way to the docks and back.” Varric had to grin at that mental image. “Anything, anything at all to keep my mind off the conversation the night before.” Another of those slight winces, “Anything to keep from thinking about the pain in his eyes.” Hawke closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head against the chair back again.

“When I came home that evening, well after dusk, he was there, waiting for me. I could see it in his face, that he’d made up his mind about something. I honestly don’t remember what I said, but the next thing I knew, I had him against the wall, kissing him, Varric. And then...” Hawke trailed off.

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, Hawke, I’d say you were blushing.” The glare Hawke shot him was nearly back to normal. “Look, you want to know what went wrong, right? So, give ole Varric the details. It’s not like its anything I haven’t heard before. Or maybe it is, and you get to impress me.”

Hawke took a long drink again, and when he set the mug down, Varric filled it again. “Keep talking, Hawke.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You should have seen him, Varric.” Hawke looked out into the gloom of Varric’s suite for a moment, and the dwarf watched the firelight make shadows dance on the wall. “I still don’t really remember how we got upstairs, to be honest. I think we even tripped over that blighted dog of mine, or it might even have been Sandal for all I know. But then we were up there, and -”

“No skimping on the details, Hawke. Foremost, if you want my help with that sulky elf, I need to know what happened.”

“And second?” Hawke asked.

“I want to make sure I know the juicy parts for when I tell the story of your conquests.” Varric’s grin crawled up the side of his face, then widened when he saw the look on Hawke’s face. “I’m kidding!”

“Are you really sure you want to hear about him - Fenris, I mean, and me? I mean, I don’t really know -” Hawke swallowed slightly, licking his lips in agitation, “- Do dwarves even do that?”

“Hawke, really. You humans never stop amazing me with your assumptions.” His laughter was all but indistinguishable from the real thing. “But that’s you trying to change the subject. Come on, tell me. What happened between you and that elf that’s got you looking like a kicked mabari puppy?”

Hawke winced at that. So he really had stumbled over the dog, a detail that Varric recorded in his imagining of the scene. He wondered what other little details he could gather.

* * *

Fenris stood, silhouetted by the light of the fireplace with the light reflecting in strange patterns along the lyrium lines along his skin and dancing in green eyes wide with hesitation and anticipation. Hawke looked up into those eyes, afraid of the hesitation as much as he was the nearly animal need in those eyes which surely mirrored his own. Sitting on the bed, Hawke felt his hands bunch in the silk of the coverlet, fisting the fabric tightly before letting it go, suddenly aware of the visible sign of his anxiety.

“Fenris, are you sure?” He could taste a lingering sweetness on his lips, mixed with a faintly spicy flavor that tasted like the faint smell that he associated with Fenris. Surely the elf had been drinking, and this was drunken bravado.

Fenris glared down at him with a cold sobriety in his eyes. “I am here, is that not enough to show you that I am sure? What else must I do to show you this?” the elf stepped forward with a speed Hawke wondered if he could ever match and reached to cup Hawke’s face, holding the metal clad fingers against his cheeks. Hawke, unconsciously, flinched from the pain of the sharp edged metal biting into his skin, then swore as Fenris jerked his hands back.

“Blight it, no, come back here,” Hawke snatched one of Fenris’ wrists as he pulled away, his tug drawing the elf closer only because the elf was off balance with the sudden motion. “You just caught me with an edge or something.” He looked from Fenris’ face to the metal backed gauntlets, “Blight, please tell me these come off?”

Fenris smiled, an expression that on anyone else Hawke would have called bashful, and reached to carefully unfasten a clever set of buckles that held the gauntlets in place. He dropped them to the floor, then flexed each hand in turn in a loose-jointed dance of digits. The back of each hand was traced in ever thinning lines of lyrum wrought in vine-like curves. Hawke stared.

“What.”

“I’ve never seen your bare hands before, is all. Three years, and all I’ve ever seen are those,” He gestured at the metal and leather of the gloves Hawke reached out to take one of Fenris’ wrists again in his hands, but the elf only looked down at his outstretched hands a bit warily. “Maker’s breath, I just want to hold one of them for a moment.”

Still a bit wary, Fenris stepped closer to where Hawke sat and offered up a hand. Gently, he took it between his own and for a moment simply held it, reveling in even this small moment of closeness. The skin was soft, hardly what he expected, and had the same texture nearly as a fine vellum with the same nearly translucent appearance under the natural tan of the skin. Except where it was bisected with lyrium, that was, and there it was ridged in a way that looked more like branding than any tattooing he had ever seen. He carefully avoided touching those silvery lines, remembering how he had seen Fenris flinch, or worse, when someone touched one unexpectedly. Hawke made a mental note to kill Danarius for that, if for nothing else.

“Are you quite done?” Fenris seemed confused, and by extension annoyed, by the attention Hawke was paying to merely holding his hand. To stop any further protests, Hawke lifted the hand to his lips, then carefully nipped a fingertip between his front teeth before planting a light kiss on the back of his fingers. The skin tasted of good leather and that slightly spicy smell. Fenris made a slight sound, a quick intake of breath, at the touch of the teeth on his skin. Hawke released the hand from his own with a smile.

Hawke released the hand from his own with a smile. “Just wondering how much more of that comes off that I don’t know about,” he said, gesturing with his hand at the leather and steel armor that clad the elf from neck to ankle, “or wondering if I need to find more bandages for in the morning if it doesn’t.” Fenris frowned, but laughed despite the expression clouding over his face. The sound was nervous, and seemed to startle even Fenris.

“If this is merely an opportunity for you to joke at my expense,” Hawke froze, recognizing real fear in those too green eyes.

“Have you ever known me to joke about something important?” Hawke asked, standing and reaching a hand out to cup a hollow cheek. Blight but he still eats so poorly, Hawke caught himself thinking as thumb brushed against the ridge of bone just under the eye.

He never let Fenris answer, drawing the elf’s lips against his own, but this time neither of them was quite so forceful as they had been in their first extended kiss. Fenris’ lips parted, his teeth nipping at Hawke’s bottom lip, and Hawke used the moment to run the tip of his tongue under the curve of a lip, tasting again the sweetness of wine. Fenris’ eyes closed, and Hawke felt a shudder run through the other man’s body as he pressed closer to Hawke. Hawke pulled back, concerned.

“Are you-” Hawke didn’t quite know the question he was asking. Fenris looked back at him, stern face filled with annoyance and raw need, with both emotions barely covered over by his usual brooding mask.

Hawke smiled softly as he brushed a strand of the lyrium bleached hair from his forehead before speaking again. “Now, are you going to show me how to get you out of this shell, assuming it comes off at all?”

Fenris laughed, one of the few true laughs Hawke had ever heard from the escaped Tevinter slave, and answered: “It all comes off. Despite what you may think, it is not grafted on to me, though it might as well have been for as often as I get to remove it.”

And it did all come off, to Hawke’s amazement, in elegant pieces like the bark of an old sycamore, each scale and plate overlapping just so to produce the appearance of the seamless whole. And, with each buckle and clasp, it revealed more of the extensive lines of lyrium and the extensive network of unhealed or poorly healed scars that marked Fenris’s life out in lines of pain. But under those lines, Hawke could see the fluid beauty of the body, the ripples of muscle and tendon under the skin. And with each hand-span of revealed flesh Hawke only wanted to see more.

Fenris’s teeth on his shoulder, biting into the thick cord of muscle at the nape of his neck as the slightly shorter elf pressed against him, brought him to reality.

“Too many clothes.” Fenris’ words were hot and breathy against his skin, nestled against the collar of Hawke’s dressing robe. With a shove, Hawke found himself back on the bed, the situation being quickly remedied.


	3. Chapter 3

“Varric, are you listening to me?” Hawke’s slightly slurred words caught Varric’s attention less than the change of tone. The dwarf had been trying to put together the details missing from Hawke’s account thus far, and found he was doing too surprisingly good of a job.

“Yes, of course. So, thus far, I’m not seeing a problem, Hawke. What happened?”

Hawke rolled his eyes and ran a hand through tousled hair, a sign of both frustration and annoyance that Varric had learned actually meant he was frustrated with himself, rather than any external force. Varric reached over and filled Hawke’s and his own mugs again, careful to make sure Hawke only had enough to keep him talking and that he had enough to make sure he kept listening.

“I remember when I was a kid, there was this man on one of the outlying farms who used to keep hunting dogs.” Varric cocked an eyebrow at the sudden change of topic, but let Hawke continue. “But he lost his wife to a bad fever, and his only son to blood poisoning, all in the same winter, and he started taking out his anger on the dogs. Soon he had either starved or beaten them all to death except for one bitch and her puppies.” Hawke seemed lost in the memory. “My father found out about it, and went out to his farm along with some of the other village men, and they took the dog and her puppies from him. I remember when he brought her home to us, how she was so starved she ate everything you would put in front of her, then vomit it back up, then eat the vomit.” Varric grimaced at the image. “But she was so scared of people that she would flinch away from anyone, even my father bringing her food. And then she would guard her food until he was far enough away she thought he couldn’t try to take it.”

“I hate to break into the narrative stream there, Hawke, but what does this have to do with your elf problem?”

“That’s just it! Everything! He was just like that dog was, so skittish at every touch, but so starved for it. And -”

“And you were the dog’s breakfast.”

“Right. I mean no! Maker, I did make a mess of it, I know I did. But I don’t know what else I could have done, Varric!” Hawke thumped his mug down on the table in frustration, amber liquid sloshing onto his hand and the table.

“So what else happened, Hawke? You can’t be this upset because you and Broody finally did what you’ve been doing to each other with your eyes for the last year!”

Hawke sighed. “In part, yes. But no, no, let me tell you how it went.” Hawke took a long drink, then glared at Varric. “And I swear, if you tell a single soul what I’m going to tell you, you’ll wake up in the Dark Roads without Bianca.”

“You wouldn’t hurt her!” Varric exclaimed in mock horror.

“Want to bet?” Hawke’s face was stony, but it was a mocking version of the expression.

“Alright, alright, Hawke. You win. I promise I won’t tell a soul. Now tell me what else happened!”

* * *

 

Hawke’s next clear thought was of a hand, shockingly hot against his skin, sliding under the cloth of his trousers, the fingers tracing the line of his hipbone. Something inarticulate fumbled out of his mouth, trying to both draw the attention of Fenris’ hand away from the skin and to encourage the touch to move further. Neither message was clear even in his own mind.

All he can think of at first is that hand, but then his perceptions spiral outward. Then he felt hot lips and breath against his neck and shoulders, then lifted away to be replaced by a stroking hand. The weight of the body over his was surprising given how little there seemed to be of Fenris without the layers of leather and steel that before tonight Hawke had never seen him without. But it pressed down into his own, and pressed him firmly into the soft down coverlet and mattress as the elf leaned over him. And Hawke could feel his growing arousal pressing into first belly, then hip, then thigh, as the elf moved over his body. Hawke found himself with his face buried first in the wild tangle of silvery hair, then against the spicy smelling skin of the elf’s neck, his own teeth and lips seeking any contact he could make with skin.

His hands found only frustration however, as they sought skin, for each time he reached to touch the lightly tanned skin, each time being brushed away by the hand which wasn’t occupied exploring what felt like every line and curve of his body. At last, he surrendered, letting both hands fall limply to his sides, rewarded by a sudden redoubling of the feverish touches across his skin, and then the press of nearly burning hot lips on his own. As hands brushed across his bared chest and along his ribs, he opened his lips to a probing pointed tongue, aware of the strange spicy taste mixed still with the last lingering flavor of the sweet wine mingled in the kiss.

Fenris broke the kiss and pulled away, standing again and looking down at Hawke as though suddenly aware of what they were doing. Hawke, with the weight of the other off his prone body, pulled himself up on his elbows.

Fenris mumbled something, the words a phrase in Arcanum that escaped Hawke’s limited knowledge of the language, then looked away from Hawke’s eyes. “I - I do not mean to -”

Hawke couldn’t stand the pained look that crossed those large green eyes, so cut him off. “Fenris. Please. Whatever your fears are, forget them for just this night?” Hawke pulled himself back up to sitting, folding his legs under him on the bed and casting aside the dressing robe that had all but fallen from his torso already. Fenris, completely naked but for the wrap of cloth that passed for his smallclothes, seemed poised on either joining him on the bed or fleeing. Hawke reached out a hand and said, “Fenris, do you trust me?” A nod, barely there, and then Fenris seemed to soften, sliding forward and letting Hawke pull him onto the bed.

The elf seemed to curl around him, long limbs entwining around Hawke even as he tried to slide off the linen trousers still tied at his waist. Fenris’ long fingers plucked at the tie, then helped slide them down, fingers brushing over the fabric of his smallclothes as they sought flesh.

“Do all Fereldens wrap themselves in so many clothes?” Hawke, had he not known Fenris better, would have missed the mocking gleam in the green eyes and the small laugh after the words. Hawke, to silence him, pressed a kiss into his lips, then felt his tongue drawn into the feverish heat of Fenris’ mouth. Hawke, eyes closed, raised a hand and, unthinkingly, and ran fingertips along the angular jaw. He felt Fenris flinch away from the touch, slightly, as a fingertip brushed the raised edges of the lyrium lines etched into his flesh.

“Do those,” Hawke asked, pulling away slightly, “Really hurt so badly?” Fenris shrugged, and Hawke was suddenly acutely aware of the tangle of limbs and chest around him, all etched with lines of lyrium. Again, he tried to remove his hands from anywhere that the lyrium touched.

And then, as if to distract him from the topic completely - and he was sure that was the case - he felt Fenris press his still clothed hips against his own, making him aware of the growing ache between his legs from prolonged arousal. The nearly feral look that Fenris turned on him made him loose nearly all thoughts of the lyrium lines. There was a brief thought, a flash of a question, of how could Fenris be so eager yet so easily frightened away, and then it was gone in the sudden heat of hands tugging free the laces of his smallclothes and then tugging them down.


End file.
